Wednesday, November 23, 2016

I can see that you’re struggling. I know that this year has been a little rough
with the election and everything so we’re all a little banged up and now we’ve
got Thanksgiving to deal with as if the last couple of months hadn’t been
enough of a kick in the pants. Now you’ll be sitting next to the same cousin
who posted angry, embarrassing screeds on your Facebook page, the same brother
who felt emboldened to forward you absolutely nutter messages from the NRA, the
same aunt who goes out her way to tell you, apropos of nothing, that she is
praying for you. On November 24, you and all of them will be smooshed together in
the same claustrophobic room.

On the bright side, if there’s anyone who is adept or at least experienced at powering
through a hostile, unpleasant environment at Thanksgiving, it’s a vegan. See,
we’re good for something other than making you feel guilty and/or resentful all
the time. We’ve got real life skills. Here I am, your cheerful ambassador to an
inhospitable holiday meal with the family, and, not to be all full of myself,
but I have a metric ton of experience in this. Let me be your friendly guide. After
all those years of being freaked out and more than a little despondent to
sitting at a table where people are eating corpses, this year’s post-election
Thanksgiving will be, if not a breeze, than at least nothing new. Please enjoy
the following tips and pointers I’ve accrued from my many years of steeping in
the family milieu at Thanksgiving.

And let us be thankful
for the little things.

* Bring an ally if you can. Agree that you can lightly jab at each other under
the table in lieu of banging your heard into a wall.
* Go in a bedroom and punch a pillow if you need to. Don’t explain your
absence. Just do it.
* Carbo-load for mood elevation but have an exit strategy for the inevitable blood
sugar crash. You should actually have the exit strategy even without low blood
sugar.

* On the exit strategy:
The thing about strategies is they have to be strategic, in that they are already planned, you don’t just awkwardly
try to wing them like some guy at his first improv class. People can see the flop sweat bead up on your
forehead. Do you want that? Lay the groundwork for your early departure with an
elegant, airtight alibi: Does your elderly cat need fluids? Have you been
feeling a little under the weather? Do you have to get up super early tomorrow?
Did you maybe leave your oven on, garage door open, back door unlocked? Whatever, man. I am not here to think
for you. Just come up with a semi-plausible foot-out-the-door strategy, don’t try
to be too creative or complicated, and commit to it, okay?
* Question: Is recreational cannabis legalized and accessible where you live? If
so, you can draw your own conclusions.
* Repeat a mantra like “In with love, out with anger.” Coordinate with your
breaths. (Do I need to say that the mantra should be silent?)
* Try this visualization technique when you get stressed: Imagine that you are
on a beach or a peaceful meadow, whatever is more pleasing to you. Picture a
perfect blue sky or the dappled sun on your blanket. Feel the warm sand or the
soft grass beneath you. Sink into it. Hear the seagulls and waves, hear the
songbirds and wind blowing through the leaves. Inhale the sea salt, the intoxicating
wildflowers. Imagine it with as much detail as you are able and your uncle pontificating
about “the Mexicans” will recede far away into the background.
* Less ambitiously, you could try to recollect every cute kitten video you have
stored in your memory bank.
* Make a note of all the funny shit you’re going to post on Facebook when this
shit show is over and make it a mental challenge to remember every last, shitty
detail. Remember that comedy is tragedy + time.
* It could always be worse, right? This could be a Thanksgiving meal with the
Duck Dynasty family or Ted Nugent or some other next level wing-nut crackpottery.
Cultivate gratitude for the little things, like not having anyone actively try
to murder you and dance in your still-warm blood at the Thanksgiving table. Keeping
things in perspective is key to a positive attitude.
* Remember motivational and inspiring quotes like, “When you are going through
hell, keep going,” “That which doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger,” and, “It’s
just a couple hours…It’s just a couple hours … It’s just a couple hours …”
* The Thanksgiving table is not the place to do your activism. At dinner, nobody
wants to hear things like “You voted in a racist, misogynist, xenophobic regime
with the most despicable, backwards platforms imaginable and a tantrum-inclined
despot with Narcissistic Personality Disorder at the helm and so you might have
an answer as to why the neo-Nazis are celebrating the results of the election.”
Um, you know, for example.
* Find conversational common ground everyone can agree on, like that it is
better to be healthy than sick. Ice is cold. Fire is hot. Air is important. So
is water. We can all agree on these things. Stick to such neutral and banal universalities
to find areas of shared understanding.
* Want to mess with people but not in a way that will bring about a Jerry
Springer-style brawl? Here’s what you do: If someone starts spewing nonsensical
garbage, like that turkeys are dumb and so eating them is like eating a
vegetable (yep, I’ve heard that one) or that you can vote for a racist without actually
being a racist, don’t say a word. Don’t make a face. Just look at the person in
your most straight-faced way. Maintain eye contact. Don’t nod. Don’t even
frown. Don’t say, “Hmm,” or tsk or anything. Just listen to them spewing BS without
a reaction but also without looking away and they will get more and more
uncomfortable that you are not throwing them a lifeline. Trust me on this. Watch
as they desperately grasp for your validation and exoneration, your face
inscrutable, offering nothing. This is great fun in an End of Days sort of way.
* In conversation, keep things pleasantly ambiguous, saying something like,
“Mashed potatoes. Who doesn’t like mashed potatoes? Am I right?” regardless as
to whether or not it is relevant to the conversation.

* Don’t try to text
your friends for support from the dinner table. That’s rude. Go into the
bathroom to do that.
* Then again, if you’re not invited back, is it such a big loss?

So, hey, I hope this is helpful.
You’ll survive it. You’ll be fine. The point is just to white-knuckle it and
get through to the other side with a minimum of damage.

I have faith in you.

Happy Thanksgiving.

xo -

Your Vegan Guide

PS – Maybe you can be a real ally now and leave the animals off your plate?

Thursday, November 17, 2016

You know what holiday movie I can’t stand? “Rudolph, the
Red-Nosed Reindeer.” God. it's so bad! Already dusty and creaky in my childhood back in the
Paleozoic era, even as a child, I was appalled by the accepting attitude in the Rankin/Bassproduction toward bullying culture
and the pressure to conform. Speaking of, how about the grown ups? Donner,
Rudolph’s father is a bellowing cretin and Santa Claus is The. Absolute. Worst.
Insensitive, tyrannical, humorless, distant and manipulative, Santa Claus only
comes around to appreciating Rudolph’s worth when he figures out a way to take
advantage of the difference that once disgusted and repelled him. Plus there’s
the acceptance of the status quo of exploitation and ownership of other animals
that underpins the whole terrible story. Do I have to spell out any more why
this is problematic?

Robin Raven to the rescue! With her new children’s book, Santa’s First Vegan Christmas
by Vegan Publishers, Robin begins her tale from
that familiar place of accepted exploitation and oppression and turns the old
story on its head. With Dana, the confident and assertive reindeer who refuses to
be used or allow other reindeer to be exploited for Santa’s annual Christmas Eve
ride, the animals have a wise and thoughtful voice. I won’t tell too much about
this story because I don’t want to give too much away, but Dana helps Santa
Claus understand what is wrong with oppressing others and helps him to connect
the dots to compassionate, vegan living while still managing to enjoy the
Christmas spirit. With lively, colorful illustrations by Kara Maria Shunk and engaging
storytelling set to rhyme by the author, Santa’s
First Vegan Christmas is a beautiful and inspiring story that encourages young
people to consider others from the perspective of equality and respect. Shot
through with holiday magic, Santa’s First
Vegan Christmas is also a story about how we don’t have to compromise our
values in our desire to celebrate favorite traditions. It’s a lovely, heartwarming read with a
gentle but honest message of compassion. It would be a great gift for anyone,
young or old, this holiday season.

I am honored to be able to feature the author, Robin Raven, as this week’s
Vegan Rock Star. I love Robin’s kind and honest voice; the vegan movement and
the animals are lucky to have her.

1. First of all, we’d love to hear your “vegan evolution” story. How did you
start out? Did you have any early influences or experiences as a young person
that in retrospect helped to pave your path?

Yes, I have always felt a strong connection to animals. To
make a long story short, I went vegetarian as a kid because I couldn’t bear the
thought of animals being harmed and killed. It was always about protecting
animals for me. I didn’t want to eat animals and was a vegetarian for most of
my life before more recently becoming a vegan. Of course, now I wish I had gone
vegan many years ago! I didn’t realize the harm that I was causing before going
vegan. I will be vegan for the rest of my life now.

2. Imagine that you are pre-vegan again:
how could someone have talked to you and what could they have said or shown you
that could have been the most effective way to have a positive influence on you
moving toward veganism?

You know, it was easy for me to go vegetarian, but
transitioning to veganism was more challenging. I think that simply having
open, honest, polite, and kind discussions is the best way to go. If someone
had told me exactly what was happening in the dairy industry, I would have gone
vegan immediately.

3.
What have you found to be the most effective way to communicate your message as
a vegan? For example, humor, passion, images, etc.?

When having personal discussions, I just speak from the
heart, and I try not to state or repeat something without fact-checking it. Also,
I don’t come from a place of judgment, but I am also not going to agree to a
lie even when the truth is uncomfortable.
4. What do you think are the biggest strengths of the vegan movement?

I think that kindness, compassion, and strength of character
are strong among so many people I meet who are a part of the vegan movement. There
are so many kind-hearted people striving to make a difference and build a more
compassionate world. Every individual in the vegan movement can be its
strength. We can all do something important.

5.
What do you think are our biggest hindrances to getting the word out
effectively?

I think that people get a lot of validation for practices
and traditions that hurt animals. It’s socially acceptable to do all kinds of
horrible things to animals. Since most people eat meat and other animal
products, I think many people don’t feel compelled to examine their choices and
don’t want to hear something that will challenge the way that they are living.
I think the prevalence of pseudoscience and so many unfortunate vegan
stereotypes are hindrances, too.

6.
All of us need a “why vegan” elevator pitch. We’d love to hear yours.

Great question, and I wish I could say that I had one. I’m
totally going to work on that now. I handle each interaction differently.

7.
Who are the people and what are the books, films, websites and organizations
that have had the greatest influence on your veganism and your continuing
evolution?

Oh, there are so many. I love Vegan Street and all the
incredible work you have done here! I am always reading and try to support
vegan authors by getting their books whenever I can. I just read a fantastic
book called The Vegan Way by Jackie Day.

8. Burn-out
is so common among vegans: what do you do to unwind, recharge and inspire
yourself?

I take self-care very seriously, and I try not to take
myself seriously at all. Both these things can be easier said than done
sometimes, though. I like to walk while listening to my favorite music. I love
being around animals and talking to friends. I adore going to the theater to
watch a movie. That’s one of my favorite ways to escape reality for a bit. I
recently discovered a passion for photography. Savoring the simple joys in each
day is important, and I keep a gratitude journal.

9. What is the issue nearest and dearest to your heart that
you would like others to know more about?

I could not pick a single issue,
but many are close to my heart. I think an intersectional approach to activism
is important. Prejudice, bigotry, and cruelty in all its forms is wrong, and we
all need to make our voices heard loud and clear about that.

10. Please finish this sentence: “To me, being vegan is...”

To me, being vegan is living with compassion and respect for
all sentient beings.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Staring at this blank
page, I keep trying to collect my thoughts, summon up hope and develop a game
plan for dealing with the fallout of Tuesday’s historic election because that
is usually how I approach setbacks once I have some distance but this time is different.
I find my brain is of no help to me right now. In fact, it is actively working
against me. It is on strike, huddled under a pile of blankets, glassy-eyed and mumbling
to itself.

Sitting here, my mind of
little use to me, I am reminded of a quote from Joan Didion’s famous essay from
the New York Times, “Why I Write.” “Had I been blessed with even limited
access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write. I write
entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and
what it means.” Now, I like to think that I have some access to my own mind (and I’m guessing that Ms. Didion was
being self-deprecating herself) but much of why I write is also fueled by curiosity:
What do I think about this? What do I feel about it? Why do I think that? Why
does it make me feel this way? What is the story that I am hooked on and is it
objectively true? Is it fair? Much of my writing, whether it is satire,
advocacy, journalism or personal narrative, originates in this humble and often
frightening place: What are my thoughts?

What are my thoughts?

What are my thoughts?

This simple little sentence, barely more than a fragment, basically sums up
what the cloud over my head, maybe inside it, has been showering down ad
nauseum since Tuesday night. What are my
thoughts? I don’t know. But I can let you know about little glimpses of self-awareness
that I’ve found while poking through the dusty internal rubble.

First, I can tell you that I feel like I’m breathless. I feel like I had been holding
my breath until after the election. I had been eager for many things but from a
selfish standpoint, I was looking forward to the human trigger of many visceral
memories I have of tyrannical patriarchs and abusers to soon vanish from my
worldview once again. On Wednesday morning, that horrible, nightmarish day, I
learned that not only was he not
disappearing, he was here to stay. Coming up for air because I had to, it wasn't the breath that I was
expecting. The giant, gratifying inhalation and exhalation I’d been so looking
forward to has been replaced by a shocking further compression of my lungs. One
gets used to those shallow breaths, though, when they are all we have.

Second, I’ve been walking around feeling nauseated with a
lurching, disassociated feeling of dread and vague disgust in my gut, just
hanging there like smoke that won’t dissipate. Now I, like millions of other
women, can expect to see someone who is the human representation of every male
who has grabbed her without consent, who has insulted her, who has sexually
abused her, who has threatened her, who has disrespected her and who has just carried
on with his life. We can expect to see and hear him in our daily life so we are
constantly bracing ourselves for the next mental assault. Now this smug, overgrown
schoolyard bully, this entitled, racist creep, this tantrum-prone and vengeful child
of privilege who is so utterly despicable that the white supremacist movement
is rejoicing over is President of the United States

This predator. This bully. This creep. This smug, sneering abuser who, if U.S.
history is any guide, gets away with it again and again.

Holy fuck. You may have noticed that I don’t really swear here. I am not
opposed to it; I just don’t do it much. Sometimes, though, we are at that stage.
I don’t can’t think of a more fitting holy
fuck time in recent memory.

You know what makes it even worse? People on all sides of the political
spectrum trivializing and smirking at those of us who are having a really hard time with the
prospect of a President Trump, now no longer a prospect but a reality, and
dismissing us as emotional, irrational sore losers. There is a world of us
right now with old wounds that have been ripped and are bleeding anew. We are
triggered. We are in shock. We are re-traumatized. We are trying to figure out
if the Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder symptoms will mitigate or worsen with
time and more exposure. It’s up in the air. I would ask for people to please
understand that trauma manifests in ways that are not always easy to understand but maybe you can try to stop trying to score tactical arguing
points long enough to be a decent ally.

This is just the personal, too. This is not even getting
into what the regressive, backwards administration is going to look like for
marginalized people, immigrants, people with fewer advantages, people with
brown skin, females, the environment, the animals, the world.

So, yeah, we are hurt and we are scared. We are traumatized again and we are
anticipating at least four years of it. We have already survived at least one
trauma, though, and we will do it again. Maybe we’ll even turn it into
something positive. But don’t you dare tell me and the other people who are
disgusted, heartsick and lurching with the prospect of living with a daily reminder of trauma
that we are being melodramatic and emotional. We are experiencing trauma and we are trying our hardest to get through this. Please accept that you might not know what that feels like. We may be battle-scarred but the thing
about a scar is it is a sign of healing and recovery, of survival. We’ll get
through it. We may be wobbly, hurt and reeling right now but you know the thing
about people who have some scars?

Thursday, November 10, 2016

The morning of
September 11, 2001, I was alone in our apartment in Chicago, having just read a
headline on Salon that an airplane flew into the World Trade Center. It was
hazy and random; I didn’t think much of it other than, “Oh, those poor people.”
I didn’t suspect terrorism at first. I didn’t think it was intentional. As the
news progressed on that sickening, staggering day that I watched like it was a
newsreel from Hades, I remember feeling pity for anyone bringing a child into
the world, for how they must have felt with the news. I did not know yet that I
was newly pregnant; I wouldn’t know for another month or so. Maybe, I thought,
it was better off not having children.

When I learned that I was pregnant, strangely, my anxieties immediately
dissolved. I was filled with hope and excitement. This was the hope I needed.
This future baby was my motivation for becoming more active with creating
change and helping to build a better world. As my pregnancy progressed, my
husband and I would watch in wide-eyed disbelief as this strange form in my middle
danced and rejoiced when I drank a shake in the morning. We gave my mother, widowed
and depressed, something to look forward; we imagined this future child, what
he or she might look like. Oh, and what kind of name?

When my son was born – raging and radiant with a sputtering, feisty spirit
after a long labor with unforeseen challenges – we had a name picked out but we
had decided that if he didn’t fit the name, we would just put it off until we got
to know him better. Thankfully, it did fit the baby who hung on for 52-hours
and came out of my last minute c-section kicking ass and taking down names: Justice. His name was Justice and it
perfectly suited him with his tiny fists of rage and assertive, confident voice.
At least his name was one thing we didn’t need to think about as he and I faced
the weeks ahead of a slow healing and bonding.

In all the years that have followed my son’s birth, fourteen now, I have never
questioned if it was a smart decision to bring a child into this deeply flawed
and needlessly violent world despite my initial misgivings. I had this child, with
his dreamy, liquid eyes full of curiosity and his luscious, satiny skin; I had this
child who was full of kindness, with a rich inner-world and the dogged
individuality that has impressed me from the first day we met. Justice was more
of what the world needed. I observed the world with fresh eyes with my son: in my arms,
at my breast, in the carrier, in a stroller, toddling beside me, running through
the grass, learning how to swing at the playground, skipping down the sidewalk
to school. Yes, as someone who thinks and feels things deeply, life has not
always been without turbulence for Justice but on the balance he is happy and content.
In our life together, I have never again questioned bringing him into the world,
I have always just accepted his life as an invaluable gift.

Or I didn’t question it until November 9 at midnight, our 2016 election. Or was it before
dawn? That feeling of the room closing in on me, of watching a newsreel from Hades
between my fingers again, numb hands, my chest pounding in my throat. I watched
as our beautiful map filled in with large swaths of red, a few splashes
of blue for our optical and spiritual relief, but hot, fiery red everywhere
else. I finally had my moment of doubt, of reckoning. For the first time in my
son’s life, I asked myself if having him was a selfish, cruel mistake.

On November 8 as the map filled out in heartbreaking red, my son lived up to his name and channeled the
fierce spirit we met back in 2002. He stormed through the house, gutturally howling
like a wounded, betrayed beast, tears streaming without inhibition. He punched
a pillow in his tae kwon do gear. He sought affirmation that it wasn’t going to happen
but as more states turned red before our eyes, we couldn’t give him what he so
desperately sought. There weren’t any surprise electoral votes we could uncover;
the math was pretty simple, after all, and it was all adding up to the
unspeakable. “It’s not over,” my husband said. I could tell from the grave look
on his face, though, that it was. This is a face that my husband only reserves
for Really Serious Matters and because he knows how high-strung I am, I’ve only
seen it a few times. It has always been warranted. I saw that face and I tried to hide my fear. My son could see through it.

His thick eyelashes heavy with tears, his face mottled with the emotions that
poured out of him just like on the day he was born, Justice looked back and
forth between us, the people he has entrusted to keep him safe, to keep the
world okay. How could this be? How could
we do this? How? Just how? He demanded answers and we just shook our heads
sadly. I’m not worried about me but what
about other people? Again, we had no answers except that we will do our
best to protect everyone. How empty this felt to say.

My son finally left the room, sat at my desk and wrote the angriest screed
I’ve ever heard from him. In fourteen years, I never once heard Justice use the
word “hate” once, not even as a toddler; he is not a perfect being but “hate”
is just not part of his vocabulary. We never forbade him from saying it: he
just never did. Until November 8. I winced reading what he wrote, knowing that
there has been an innocence lost, but I also understood that the acorn does not
fall far from the tree: in order to heal, he knew instinctively that he needed
to feel. And feel it he did. He was
processing it. He was burning through it. This is exactly what I do.

When I passed his room in the middle of that night, a night that was eerily silent like a
vacuum, he was sleeping on his messy bed, finally collapsed, a heap of spent
emotions. In the moonlight, he can still look like a baby when he sleeps. I stood in the doorway, apologizing silently, for us, for them, for this sad, sorry world. For his sweet, trusting soul, for raising him as someone who believes in his heart that kindness and reason will eventually prevail.

“The world is falling apart,” I said to my husband, crawling back into bed, my
voice hushed. “It’s over. It’s over.” It was midnight or 3:00 in the morning or maybe even between
feverish dreams. “What did we do? What did we just do?”

It is the next day now when I write this and I am bone-tired and bleary-eyed
and I have no answers but I will tell you this: on November 9, my son woke up
with fire in his belly. He was vibrant. His eyes were sparkling. He was buzzing
with creative, transformative energy and I’ll tell you why. All week, we have
been planning to be a part of an activist group that was going to point at
Trump Tower in Chicago at 5:00 the day after the election and laugh. This was
when we all expected that he would be shut out. A week before, my son planned
his sign. He was going to wear a demon’s mask and hold a
sign that says, “Stop Demonizing Trump.
It’s Insulting to Demons.” He planned that out himself. While watching the
returns Tuesday night, my husband did the lettering on the board. Even as it
was becoming clear that he was going to win, John kept writing out the sign.
This morning, I woke up to the news that while we wouldn’t be pointing and
laughing Trump Tower, people would be gathered to protest at the same location.
I asked my son if he still wanted to go.

He ran upstairs to brush his teeth before school and work on his rhetoric.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

There is a ongoing controversy surrounding a quote attributed to the novelist Margaret
Atwood: “The Eskimos had 52 names for snow because it was
important to them; there ought to be as many for love.” The quote is
controversial for a couple of reasons, both leading back to the cultural and
linguistic nuances of the polar-dwelling, indigenous people commonly referred
to in the U.S. as Eskimos. The concept of the “52 words” has its origins in the
work of linguist and anthropologist Franz Boas, who wrote about the expansive
and expressive language characteristics he observed and learned while living
with the Inuit of Baffin Island in Canada in his 1911 book, Handbook of
American Indian Languages.

The controversy swirls because first, there is no singular Eskimo language; those
referred to as “Eskimos” are actually mainly Inuit and Yupik populations found
in the Alaska, Canada, Greenland and Siberia that are not united by a singular
language or culture. Second, it is not so much that the languages and dialects have
so many delightfully evocative words for snow: it is that the languages are polysynthetic, meaning that they employ
root or base words that scores of suffixes can be attached to so one “word” can
actually be turned into a complex and descriptive sentence, which could be
described as a sentence-word. Atwood’s observation remains the same, though: snow
was important to these populations – the ratios of water to powder, how
packable it is, how dry – and so the more vivid and descriptive the language
was for capturing its nuances and characteristics, the better. (This was even more true for describing
ice as their safety depended on understanding the different qualities of it.) According
to my research, the idea of “Eskimos” having many more words for snow than we
do is thought to be an exaggeration by some linguists and thought to be correct
by others given the unique attributes of polysynthetic languages.

All that said, I think we need as many words for tofu as it is as important in
the life of many vegans as snow and ice to polar inhabitants. I have identified
these words for tofu. What would you add to the
list? What would you call it?

1. Crispy-edged tofu: Crunchfu
2. Mushy tofu: Mufu
3. The pieces of tofu that stick to the pan: Stuckfu
4. Tofu that is expired: Wastefu
5. Tofu that you are happy to find in the back of your fridge: Gratitufu
6. Paneer mistaken as tofu at the Indian buffet: Fauxfu
7. Frozen tofu: Frofu
8. The tofu you eat in privacy: Bashfu9. The pointlessness of tofu cooked with meat at a restaurant: Dumbfu
10. The tofu you are using to replace meat in a recipe: Subfu
11. Disappointing tofu: Flopfu
12. The right tofu for the right situation: Apropofu13. Tofu that is good for a hangover: Curefu
14. Little bits of tofu that have broken off in a stew or soup: Bitfu
15. Whole blocks of tofu: Wholefu
16. Mashed tofu: Mashfu
17. The tofu that tofu-resistant people find themselves liking: Populofu
18. Tofu that is cold to your hands: Chillfu
19. Tofu that shakes on a plate that has just been placed in front of you: Quiverfu
20. Gummy tofu: Squishfu21. Tofu in an open package that has been improperly stored and has thus gone
bad: Regretfu
22. The tofu you eat to avoid thinking about the election: Escapefu
23. Tofu that flips out of the pan: Flyfu
24. Tofu triangles: Triangufu
25. Tofu squares: Cubefu26. Tofu rectangles: Rectangulofu
27. Tofu slabs: Slabfu28. Tofu that has a perfect texture: Firmfu
29. The tofu you eat while bird-watching: Crowfu
30. The tofu you eat at a break up dinner: Singlefu
31. Tofu that falls off your cutting board: Lowfu
32. Tofu that sticks to your knife after you slice it: Stickyfu33. The tofu that frat boys will eat when no one is watching: Brofu34. Tofu that sizzles when it hits a perfectly hot, perfectly seasoned pan:
Sputterfu35. Fancy tofu: Froufu36. The tofu you eat while reading your favorite horror story: Poefu
37. The tofu that falls off the shish kebab stick into your grill: Dratfu
38. Visiting a town that has no tofu: Lackfu39. Tofu that is easy to pick up with chopsticks: Triumphfu40. Tofu that is nearly impossible to pick up with chopsticks: Foilfu41. Tofu that squeaks ever so slightly between your teeth: Peepfu
42. Tofu that you thought you had but you don’t: Nofu43. Tofu that you’re not sure about because of its disconcerting beige
color: Doubtfu44. The tofu you crave on a quiet, wintry night: Snowfu45. The tofu you eat when you are feeling angry at someone: Mofu46. The off-brand tofu you shouldn’t have bought: Brokefu47. The tofu you cooked in a chaotic kitchen: Snafu48. Tofu that is taking too long to cook: Slowmofu50. Tofu you paid too much for: Doughfu51. The tofu you have at your wedding: Matrimofu52. Tofu you eat when depressed: Woefu